Charles Todd - Proof of Guilt

“Was he, by God. There was no official record of adoption.”

“He was never officially adopted. His mother died and Rawlings’s mother simply took him in.”

“Well, well.” Belford emptied his glass and set it back on the tray. Standing by the hearth, he said, “Something has happened. You’d better tell me.”

Rutledge said, “It’s a long story.”

“I have the time. And the patience to hear it.”

Beginning with the decision to taunt Diaz, Rutledge gave Belford an account of the arrest of Valerie Whitman, how they were followed, and then the journey in the rain to the lock at Allington. Belford said nothing, but he frowned as Rutledge described what had happened on the footplate of the bridge. When Rutledge told him about the mantrap, Belford whistled.

“You’d best look under your bed at night.”

“Believe me, I shall,” Rutledge replied grimly.

“I don’t think my man can learn much more where he is, but I’ll leave him there a day or two longer.”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” Rutledge turned his empty glass one way and then another, catching the light in the deep cuts in the crystal, watching the prism effect. “Was this the urgent message you left for me? That you had put someone in the lodging house?”

Belford smiled. “After I left that message, I wasn’t sure whether or not I was ready to tell you. I’ve been searching for it on my own.”

“Searching for what?”

“Baxter had a motorcycle with him the night he arrived. He left with it early in the morning on the day he disappeared.”

“A motorcycle!” Rutledge exclaimed and nodded. “Yes, I’d been wondering—it makes much more sense than a motorcar. The question is, where is it now?” He stood, put down his glass, and said, “You have a telephone, do you not?”

Belford hesitated, then answered, “Yes, of course.”

“I’d like to use it.”

Belford took him into the study and showed him the instrument on the desk, then was about to leave the room when Rutledge said, “No, stay.”

He put in a call to the Maidstone Police and asked for Inspector Chambliss.

“He’s just been called away, sir. Is it important? Should I try to see if I can stop him?” asked the constable who’d answered.

“It’s urgent.”

“Very well, sir. Won’t be a moment.” The constable put down the receiver, and Rutledge could hear him hurrying out the door.

It was nearly five minutes before someone returned. The receiver was lifted, and Chambliss’s voice said impatiently, “This had better be important, Rutledge. I have another murder on my hands—domestic matter.”

“You searched the area around the lock, after I’d left?”

“We did and found nothing. By the way, they pulled your hat out of the water. I’ll send it to you.”

Rutledge ignored the comment. “Have you found a motorcycle?”

There was a silence. Then Chambliss said, “We found one down by the barges. It was chained to the posts on the gangway of the Lucy Belle . Appeared to belong there. The owner is away, we couldn’t question him. But the local constable tells me that he’d had houseguests over the weekend, and we think the motorcycle belonged to one of them.”

“It could have belonged to Rawlings. Will you send someone to bring it in and secure it?”

“I can. But if you’re wrong, I’ll take the blame from the owner of the Lucy Belle .”

“In which case I’ll apologize in person. But I think that’s how Rawlings got to Kent so easily.”

“I’ll send someone along. Right now, I’m needed elsewhere,” Chambliss said.

And he hung up.

Rutledge leaned back in the chair behind the desk, relaying the conversation to Belford.

“Very good. I hope it belongs to your man.”

“So do I.” Rutledge rose. “I must clean up and then return to the Yard. Thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure.”

But was it? Rutledge again wondered why Belford had been so helpful to the police in an inquiry. He’d claimed he hadn’t cared for a dead man showing up on his street, and that had been logical, an acceptable reason for involving himself. But was there something more?

Rutledge drove to his flat, changed his clothes, and went on to the Yard, closeting himself in his office to write a report. He did not link Rawlings to the Gooding case, but otherwise gave a full account from his arrival in Allington to his discussion with Inspector Chambliss on the telephone that morning.

He finished the report, handed it to a constable to put on Markham’s desk, and then took out a sheet of paper.

Where was the missing man? There had to be another man in the picture.

Who had watched the Yard while Rawlings was in Kent?

If Baxter was the dead man in Chelsea, who had driven him there and later left the motorcar in a chalk quarry?

Who had tried to kill MacFarland and, when the opportunity arose, had taken a shot at Rutledge as he drove the tutor to Dr. Townsend’s office?

It couldn’t be Diaz, even though he had masterminded all that had happened. The man was too foreign in his appearance to pass unnoticed in a place like St. Hilary. The xenophobic villagers would have reported him to the police straightaway, suspecting him of every unsolved crime within twenty miles.

The man Baxter had brought to the lodgings for one night?

Where was he now?

Hamish was silent, having no opinion to offer.

Rutledge stood, stretched his shoulders, and decided to walk down to the river. Action of any kind was better than being cooped up in this room, in the shadow of the Acting Chief Superintendent.

But the river failed him as well. He walked over the Westminster Bridge and back, and it wasn’t until he was within shouting distance of Scotland Yard that he made a decision.

He went in search of Gibson.

“I need information on a Mr. Bennett, who lives in Surrey. The one who is married to the lame woman who takes in newly released convicts with nowhere to go.”

“Yes, sir. Meanwhile, Inspector Chambliss called while you were out. The motorcycle wasn’t there when he sent one of men to collect it.”

Rutledge thanked him, left the Yard again, and went to Chelsea, to beard Belford in his den.

“You look much better,” Belford said approvingly. “Sit down. It’s too early to offer a whisky, but there’s tea. Or coffee, if you prefer. I’ve come to like Turkish coffee.”

“Thank you, no. I need to know what you can find out about a Mr. Bennett.”

He explained the connection, then said, “It will take the Yard some time to discover what I want to know.”

“Come into the study.”

There, while Rutledge stood by the window, Belford put through two telephone calls. When he had finished the second, he turned in his chair and nodded to Rutledge.

“Very interesting. Percy Hargreave Bennett was in Berlin when war broke out. He was there to visit a friend in banking circles. And he was interned at the Ruhleben civilian detention camp just outside of Berlin. He tried twice to escape, and during the second attempt suffered internal injuries from a fall. He was repatriated at the end of the war, and resigned from his position at the Bank of England. He was rather bitter, I think, about Ruhleben. He felt the bank should have warned him in time to get out.”

“Was he one of your men?”

“Good God, no. But we had a list of the internees, you know. It was a rather odd time. The internees ran the camp themselves, even published a newspaper. Unless they tried to escape, they were left to themselves. We wanted to be sure there were no . . . Trojan horses . . . among them, someone put there to spy on them.”

“Did you find such a spy?”

“That’s not for you to know, Inspector.”